


(if you're lonely) wake me

by gardensong



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Gay Flash Thompson, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Sharing a Bed, and they were ROOMMATES, harry and mj are also here its a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27329188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardensong/pseuds/gardensong
Summary: “We’re just two guys… living together. And there’s only one bed. That’s not weird.”“Nope," Flash agreed readily.Peter squinted in consideration. “It’s kind of weird,” he reassessed.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Flash Thompson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 164





	(if you're lonely) wake me

**Author's Note:**

> set after gwens death and after harry blows up his and peter's shared apartment. around tasm #138 but without the mindworm cuz.... nah  
> this draft has haunted me for too long. i release it. hashtag peterflash2020  
> 

Flash felt as if he was drowning. It was that kind of fear: that fear that submerged you entirely, that made your limbs too heavy, that made it impossible to breathe.

_ Thump _ .

Flash jerked awake, the air in his bedroom all too cold. The noise had come from his living room. He swung his legs over his mattress and onto the floor next to where his bed covers lay. He must have kicked them off while he was sleeping.

He ran into the living room, the hairs on his arms standing up, and looked around the dark space for the source of the noise. Finally, his eyes adjusted enough to spot Peter Parker on the floor by the sofa, tangled in a sleeping bag and rubbing the back of his head ruefully.

“What the hell happened?” Flash demanded. His voice was louder than he expected it to be, and he recoiled inwardly.

“Well,” Peter said grouchily, “I fell.” He finally looked up, his dark messy hair falling across one eye. At the look on Flash’s face, his expression changed. “Gee, sorry I woke ya,” he grumbled, and it was so Peter it almost knocked Flash off of his feet. This was his life, now. This was the present. Not the war, not home, but Peter Parker mouthing off from his living room floor.

Flash clenched his jaw. The pipes in the walls gurgled as the upstairs neighbour flushed. A car drove past the street below. Then he unclenched it.

“No, it’s nothing,” he said finally. “I’m sorry you fell.”

Peter blinked at him. He seemed slightly awed.

“Thanks, bud.”

Flash nodded, and finally, the apartment became solid around him. It was the middle of the night. It was cold, because the heating was busted (because of course it was). Peter’s apartment had been wrecked in an explosion that almost killed MJ, so he was crashing on Flash’s sofa. Pete didn’t seem to blame Harry for it at all, and Flash didn’t either. Harry was sick, and mostly Flash just felt guilty for letting him slip that far. He recognized the same emotion in Peter almost every moment they spent together.

Flash listened as the quiet of the apartment became loud and his own heartbeat slowed. He cleared his throat, his arms hanging limply at his sides, and said, “I’m gonna get a glass of water.”

Peter waved a hand. “Go for it.” 

Flash headed towards the cabinet for a glass as Peter got to his feet behind him. He caught a glimpse of his roommate hopping out of the sleeping bag only to realize he wasn’t wearing a shirt, at which point he looked quickly away and began focusing on the water spilling out of his glass.

When he turned back around, Peter was back on the sofa kicking around in the inside of his sleeping bag a little restlessly.

“Well,” Flash said. “Good night.”

Peter nodded absently.

“Sweet dreams.”

Relief washed over him the second he closed his bedroom door behind him. It was just late: his bedside clock read one-forty AM. He was a little frayed around the edges after another bad dream, that was all. He had signed away his privacy and his solitude the moment he invited Peter to stay with him, and he would do it again in a heartbeat; of course he would. Besides, Peter unwittingly waking him up from one of his nightmares wasn’t exactly the downside Flash was making it out to be. He unclenched his fist and left his glass on his bedside table before collapsing onto his mattress, the bed frame creaking underneath him as he did so.

By not taking on the whole college experience Flash had missed out on roommates. Sure, there had been the bunks at military camp, and sharing a tent over in ‘Nam when they weren’t crawling through the rain and mud, but Flash couldn’t fool himself into believing that was the same. It wasn’t the same as his routine nowadays, coming in from a run to find Pete eating cereal over some Biochemistry textbook, or muttering obscenities at whichever news station was ragging on Spider-Man (and  _ Flash _ was the fanboy). Sometimes, if Peter was ordering in, he’d ask Flash if he wanted anything, and they’d eat take-out together. They didn’t talk about much, but it certainly was a long shot more civil than anything they’d ever managed in High School.

He blinked hazily, realizing that he was staring at the ceiling, unwilling to close his eyes. His heartbeat was still heavy.

He got up.

The living room was still, and his roommate was a large lump in his sofa.

“Pete?” Flash whispered. No reply. “Peter?”

There was a rustle. Peter turning his head. “Yeah?” 

Flash swallowed. “Uh, if you want... My bed is big.” He paused but realized it was too late to turn back now. “We can share.”

Clenched his eyes shut in the dark, bracing for impact. It came quickly, Peter’s tone bewildered:

“You wanna share your bed... with me? The two of us? In one bed?”

Flash’s mouth was dry, but he barrelled on through, as if this were no big deal.

“I know the sofa’s not all that comfortable. And you’re... big.” He winced, thankful that the dark was there to hide him.

“Okay, great,” said Peter. And that was that.

He heaved himself upright and kicked his way swiftly out of the sleeping bag. The light was sparse, but Peter’s bare torso shone orange in the light of the street lamps outside. Thank god he was wearing pajama pants.

Flash didn’t wait for Peter to reach him before turning around, but Peter was at his back by the time he reached his bedroom door. Once they entered his room, he became less sure of how to further navigate the situation. Peter breezed past him and put his hands on his hips.

“Which side are you taking?” he asked.

His hair was sticking upright, seeming to defy the laws of gravity itself. 

“Oh, I’ll just,” Flash gestured to the side closest to him.

Peter nodded, businesslike, then walked around the mattress and immediately fell onto it, heaving a deep sigh with eyes closed.

“A real bed,” he said, his voice faraway. “I owe you, Flash. I really do.”

“Don’t mention it,” Flash mumbled, kicking the floor. 

He lay down beside Peter slowly, aware of how the weight of his body disturbed the mattress and trying not to be too self-conscious about the squeaks and creaks it made as he did so.

He tugged a little at the bedsheets — Peter had collapsed on top of them, and no matter how weird he felt about all of this, Flash wasn’t going to sleep over the covers.

Peter lifted his hips to pull the covers from underneath him through an odd little performance that Flash couldn’t help but pay close attention to, then tossed Flash his own corner. 

Flash should have insisted Peter bring his sleeping bag. No, that would have made it weirder. But he already knew he would be sleeping as still as the dead for fear of brushing up against his ex-nemesis under the covers.

“Smell nice,” Peter remarked in a mumble, his cheek already burrowed into a pillow. Flash’s face felt warm.

He steeled himself and lay his head against his own pillow. It was softer than the one Peter had, and he liked it less. He usually woke up in the mornings with both pillows disregarded, his head flat against the mattress.

He hadn’t shared a bed with anyone since sleepovers with Liz in High School. He could already feel the cloudy heat emanating from Peter’s body under the blankets and his senses were all too aware of Peter’s breathing (and the nakedness of his shoulders).

“I should warn you,” he said, and his voice croaked a little in his attempt to speak softly. Peter hummed, clearly already halfway to Neverland, but Flash pressed on. “I have nightmares. Sometimes.”

Peter rolled onto his back. “Oh,” he said softly. “That’s okay. Me, too.”

Flash turned his head to look at him, but it was almost too dark to see. All he could make out was the blurry line of Peter’s profile, his full lips slightly apart, the bump near the bridge of his nose.

Then Peter turned onto his side, his back to Flash. Flash quickly looked away, pretending he didn’t care for the muscles on Peter’s back or the curve of his spine.

There was space enough between them. He could survive this just fine.

When Flash woke up the next day, he had completely forgotten the events of the night before. This was helped by Peter’s absence, both from Flash’s bed and the apartment. If not for the army, Flash would have never heard of a guy who slept so little. He would come in after Flash had gone to bed and was always out by the time he got up. Maybe this was all part of being a freelance photographer, always having to be in the thick of it, wherever  _ it _ was, but Flash hardly ever heard Pete complain. Heck, he would even go as far as to say Peter liked it. Flash had a hard time imagining Peter sit still anywhere that wasn’t a classroom, and from what he’d heard from Mary Jane, recently he could barely even manage that. It seemed that all Peter was ever doing was running places.

It wasn’t until Flash was halfway through his morning run around the neighborhood that he remembered how Peter had mumbled in his sleep, and how his arm had fallen over Flash’s torso and stayed there for an excruciating two minutes until he had curled back in on himself with a contented hum. No wonder Flash felt so rotten, he thought, his ankles stinging as his sneakers hit concrete. He’d hardly slept at all.

When evening fell again, however, and Peter asked if Flash minded another night spent together on the same mattress, Flash replied of course not. It was no big deal.

Because no matter how lightly he had slept, he very well couldn’t make Peter suffer the sofa any longer when his own mattress was big enough for the both of them. And when Peter asked in a way that made it seem both so simple and so ginormous a favor, Flash just couldn’t say no. Heck, he didn’t want to say no, and that was what he was most ashamed of.

Sleeping came easier to Flash after a few days. In fact, he was almost alarmed by how quickly he became used to the feel of a warm body beside him at night, and how confidently he was able to wrestle the sheets from Peter and kick him away if he got too close. Peter would either grunt and roll over, or kick him back. 

When he was asleep, Flash soon noticed, Peter never looked like he was fully resting. He seemed to be vibrating with raw energy, as if he were raring to go at any moment, even with his eyes closed. If Flash ever woke him during the night, he didn’t say anything.

One day, Flash ran into Mary Jane at the Coffee Bean. It was a bare old place, now that Gwen was gone and Harry was indisposed. It wasn’t theirs anymore. Still, Flash found himself grabbing something to go every now and then, stepping into a picture of a simpler time. Other young people crowded the jukebox and booths, and Flash watched them with a sort of disconnect. Once, he thought he saw Gwen there. 

He was leaning against the bar when Mary Jane bumped her arm into his, waking him from one of his reveries. She then gave him two bright red kisses, one for each cheek, and patted his chest firmly in greeting.

“Look at the two of us, running into each other at an old haunt!” She sighed heavily, the bracelets on her wrists clinking against the surface of the bar as she leaned into it, a sad look in her eyes. “It’s sort of romantic, don’t cha think?”

“I didn’t know you were a fan of romance,” Flash said, indulging her odd smile with one of his own. There was almost no trace left of the explosion she had suffered through, at least from what Flash could see. He detected a couple of blemishes on her cheek and forehead that had been covered up with make-up, but he quickly looked away. He couldn’t believe they had almost lost her, too. Not that it was Harry’s fault… It wasn’t Harry’s fault.

“I’m not,” Mary Jane agreed, and pulled his order towards her and peered at its contents. “Ugh. Just looking at this thing gives me a toothache.” She pushed his coffee back towards him. It was topped off with cream and sprinkles and Flash didn’t think it looked too bad. Besides, he liked to indulge when he came here. “You know, I’ve seen you here before. And I get it. I mean, I’m here too, aren’t I?”

Flash frowned. He didn’t recall ever catching a glimpse of her on one of his solo missions, but then again, he was never all there during his time spent here.

“How about Pete? Ever seen him?”

MJ shook her head.

“No. Didn’t think so.”

“We must be sentimentalists, you and I,” MJ said.

Once again, Flash frowned a little. This time, MJ caught it, and laughed.

“I don’t seem the type, do I? You know, I’m surprised, too. Every time I show up here, it’s like I didn’t know where I was going until I step through the door. We had some good times, didn’t we?”

“There are still good times,” Flash insisted, because this couldn’t be how it all ended. One friend dead, another institutionalized, the rest plowing through grief and reflecting on the good old days with gray faces.

“You’re sweet,” MJ said. “Must be all the sugar you drink. Hey, how about a dance, soldier?”

Months ago, Flash would have been thrilled by the proposal. He still was, but it was different without Peter here to watch.

They approached the jukebox, hand in hand, and MJ picked something colorful and light that shimmered from the craggy old speakers of the place. Instead of dancing the way she used to, however, she put her arms around Flash’s neck and swayed gently. Flash could feel a blush rising to his cheeks, sure people were watching, but he tried to focus on MJ all the same. Her eyes were a brilliant green, and if he looked closely enough, he could pick out the light splattering of freckles across her nose.

“I was drafted, you know,” he said. He wasn’t sure why.

MJ laced her fingers together behind Flash’s neck. Her smile fell quiet.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she seemed to mean it.

“It’s okay,” Flash said, although it probably wasn’t.

“Hey,” MJ kicked his shin gently. “When are you two gonna invite me back to the old bachelor pad, stud?”

“You don’t wanna see my apartment,” Flash assured her. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by the state of it, or the neighborhood: it was what he could afford and it was honest in its bareness. There were no pictures hanging on any wall, no vases with flowers in them, and the curtains were about the only thing in the apartment that had a pattern on them, and they were garish at that. But still, Flash wasn’t ashamed. And had it been someone else, maybe Flash would have invited them back. But MJ was smart. Not the way Gwen had been smart, but smart all the same. He felt like she would take one step through the door and know exactly what was going on and exactly how Flash felt about it. She would know, and Flash wouldn’t have to explain, and that would just make things worse because he would have no chance to insist that it wasn’t like that, not at all, and laugh the whole thing off.

“Sure I do. I wanna see where the magic happens!”

Flash laughed in spite of himself.

“Whatever’s happening there, it sure isn’t magic.” It was awkward, and uncomfortable and just fine. But it certainly wasn’t magic.

“You been holding out on the ladies, Eugene?”

“I’m just not in the mood lately,” he shrugged.

“Well, I think you deserve to have a little fun. Peter, too. Probably,” she added.

“Uh-huh.”

“But I guess, if he’s sleeping on the sofa, getting a girl may be a bit of a struggle.”

Flash smirked, and MJ gave him an odd look.

“Listen,” he said, shaking his head as MJ’s song choice faded into another, “I don’t know what it is with Peter, but I’ve never seen him struggle to get a girl.”

“Oh no?”

“I guess some girls go for that whole… thing.”

He had no idea how it had happened. One day he was same old puny Parker, and then suddenly pretty much every girl they knew were fawning over him in every hallway of Midtown High.  _ About _ him, not  _ at _ him. Flash himself hadn’t noticed much different about him, in all truthfulness, but then again, maybe he had a warped view of Peter from the very beginning.

“You mean the big doe eyes, perfectly unkempt hair, sense of humor, athletic body and great bone structure?” MJ huffed in mock-confusion. “I just don’t  _ get _ girls!”

“Sorry,” Flash shrugged. “Just seems like a jackass to me.”

“No, you’re a  _ guy _ . You’d never notice any of  _ that _ stuff.”

Flash, of course, did notice that stuff. 

That night, he noticed it when Peter came in through the front door. He dropped his backpack onto the floor by the door and shucked off his jacket to then dump it on top of his backpack. He kicked off his shoes as he yawned and left them there, a small Peter pile left in the corner of the room.

“Have you had dinner yet?” he asked, stretching his arms over his head and walking in front of the TV. As he stretched, his fingers grazed the ceiling, and Flash knew how tall Peter was, but small moments like this served as an odd sort of reminder that made his skin ache.

“I had dinner out, actually,” Flash said, forcing his eyes onto the game on TV. “With MJ.”

Even though Flash was not looking at Peter – Peter with his big doe eyes,perfectly unkempt hair, athletic body, sense of humor and great bone structure – he saw Peter freeze.

“Oh,” he said after a moment, kickstarting back into action and opening the fridge. “How was she?”

“Great. We talked a lot.”

“Cool.”

Flash bit the inside of his cheek as Peter poured himself a bowl of cereal. Peter said little else for the rest of the night, which wasn’t exactly unusual. Flash often wondered what Peter and Harry’s homelife had been like – all he knew was that Peter was rarely at home, and he knew this from Harry’s multiple complaints about the fact. Peter was rarely ever home here, too, but, more surprisingly, when he was he was often very quiet. For some reason, Flash hadn’t been expecting this, even if he knew Peter to have his moods. He could walk past a crowd of people he knew and barely even see them, and Gwen Stacy had at first had the same idea about it that Flash used to have. Peter was stuck-up. Too smart, too good, too  _ cool _ to bother with anyone else’s problems. Gwen had come around sooner than Flash had.

Sure, Peter was selfish and sometimes couldn’t see past his own nose, but Flash had learned to cut him some slack. Not a lot of slack, but some. Because sometimes Peter was tired, and others, Peter was thinking. Because Peter did bother with other people’s problems. A little too much, if you asked Flash.

That night, Flash was the first to head to bed. He never knew if Peter would join him, but did his best to talk himself out of lying in wait. Another thing he had learned in the army was how to fall asleep. 

But the army never taught you how to deal with bad dreams, and when he woke up a few hours later with his heart beating loud and face aching, he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Beside him, Peter was unnaturally still. So still that at first, Flash wasn’t even sure he was there. Flash’s mouth was dry, his heart thudding in his ears, and he could now feel Peter waiting. For what, he did not know.

“Bad dream,” he muttered, quiet enough for Peter to ignore him if he saw fit.

Peter shifted, the mattress dipping beneath them.

“From the war?” he asked quietly.

“Uh, no,” Flash said. Because this time he hadn’t been, and he was too exhausted to lie.

“Wanna talk about it?” Peter mumbled, his voice falling off at the end. And then he became still in a different way, a way Flash had come to understand was how he slept. 

He was relieved.

He listened to the rhythm of Peter’s breathing and allowed himself to be calmed by it just this once. 

His dad didn’t have his address.

He would dream of being back at home sometimes. They were disorientating in the way that Flash knew there was something wrong, but he could never put his finger on why. He would sit in his old living room, eat at his old dining table, lie on his childhood bed, all the while knowing something was wrong, but being too afraid to give it much thought.

He always realized what was wrong moments before waking up.  _ I left _ , he’d think as his father towered over him. I’m not here anymore.

Those dreams were dealt with the moment he woke up, the drywall of his own apartment wrapping him up in its arms. Far worse were the dreams where his dad showed up here. Sometimes he had to get out of bed and check the bolt on the door to his apartment, and even then he couldn’t shake the uneasiness, the thought that his father might burst through the door at any moment.

And what if he showed up now? Flash wondered. What if he showed up now and found him and Peter in bed together?

His blood turned to ice. His father barging through the door with the eloquence of a drunkard, Flash scrambling to his feet and Peter blinking awake beside him. He knew, just knew, that if his dad tried anything with Flash, Peter wouldn’t run. He would wedge himself between them with blind conviction, and Flash’s dad would hit him instead. Peter would hit back, maybe. Definitely. But Eugene’s dad was strong.

Flash flung his legs over the side of the mattress and dragged a hand across his face. Behind him, Peter snored.

Next morning he was awoken by the sounds of Peter rustling around in the kitchen. When he opened his eyes to the white light of morning, there was no apology in Peter’s demeanor, as he was pulling back chairs and smashing plates together in the sink with all the delicacy of an elephant in a child’s playroom. He had clearly been hoping to wake Flash up, and his words were ready on his lips, although he shrugged them off as if they were nothing.

“Hey, if I snore, or kick or whatever,” he said, “you’re allowed to kick me out.”

“Huh?” Flash asked through a yawn. 

“I  _ know _ that sofa is no Four Seasons.”

“Oh.” Sure enough, Flash had a crick in his neck and the length of his spine ached. Pathetic, he thought, considering he had once become accustomed to sleeping on the forest floor. “I felt sick in the night. I wanted to be closer to the, um. Bathroom.”

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed together, probably because he knew the bathroom was at the end of the hall, past Flash’s bedroom.

“You could have said something.”

“And you’d what? Play nurse?”

Peter looked mildly offended as he dropped his spoon into the sink. “I can be nurturing.”

“Sure you can, Parker.”

Peter huffed and shoved a folder into his backpack, zipping it shut with feeling.

“Nurse Parker has to take some pics into the Daily Bugle,” he said as he crossed the room to the front door, “but he’ll pick up some chicken broth on the way home.”

Flash cocked an eyebrow.

“Pete, it’s fine. I’m over it.” He sat up and threw off his blanket, stretching his arms over his head in demonstration. “Fit as a fiddle.”

Peter looked at him apprehensively. “You don’t look it.”

“Hey.”

“Sshhh, Eugene,” Peter cooed as he unfastened the door bolt. “Daddy’s gonna take good care of you as soon as he gets home.”

Flash pointed a warning finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”

Peter winked through the crack in the door and pulled it shut behind him.

Flash swore under his breath. The last thing he needed was Peter Parker babysitting him. So he’d had a nightmare! People had nightmares sometimes. And if he was sick, it was hardly Peter’s job to nurture him back to health.

But he wasn’t sick.

He headed into his bedroom, put on joggers and a t-shirt and headed out the door himself.

By the time Peter returned from his errands, Flash had gone for a run, come home, showered, and gone grocery shopping. Peter barged into the apartment bright eyed and breathless, looking as if he had just run a particularly exciting marathon and Flash had to look away to suppress the overwhelming urge of wanting to cross the room and kiss him. He focused on unloading the yogurt and oatmeal instead.

“What are you doing up?” was Peter’s greeting, and Flash rolled his eyes.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

After dropping his coat and backpack onto the floor by the door, Peter spun one of the kitchen chairs around easily, as if it were some cardboard prop from one of Mary Jane’s plays, and sat down on it, crossing his arms over the back of it and resting his chin on them.

“So,” he said, “are you gonna tell me what last night was really about?”

Flash set his jaw and kept his eyes down. When the hell had Parker grown any emotional intelligence?

When Flash said nothing, Peter swallowed, suddenly seeming uncertain.

“If you’re like... uncomfortable...” he began.

“No,” Flash interrupted all too quickly. He ignored the way Peter’s shoulder relaxed, or rather, tried not to read into it. “It’s not you. I just... had a bad night. I needed some space.”

“Well, the next time you need space, you can kick me out. It’s your bed, buddy.”

“ _ I know that _ !”

Peter blinked at him, seeming almost as shocked as Flash was at the tone Flash had taken. The blond felt the warmth in his cheeks fade from frustration into embarrassment, and he relaxed his grip on the carton of eggs he was close to breaking. The silence that followed hummed loud in his ears, but Peter surprised him by breaking it with an easy, “Okay.” He straightened and tapped his fingers on the chair. “Now that that’s all cleared up. Ramen?”

“Yeah,” Flash breathed. Peter nodded.

“Okay.”

Peter cooked their meal in silence, occasionally swearing under his breath and muttering to himself in a song-song voice. Flash might have offered to help, but ramen was hardly a two-person job, and also he prefered to distance himself just a bit after that embarrassing outburst. When he was around Pete, he never had much control over the things he said or how he said them — or rather, he had even less control than usual. 

So he instead occupied himself by flicking through the channels, not really watching much and unable to tune out Peter until Spider-Man appeared on screen.

They were doing a special on him on one of the news channels, as if Spider-Man himself had known Flash needed an intense distraction. For Flash, Spider-Man was pretty much the only constant in his life, always there when he was needed. (And when he wasn’t needed… for instance, when Flash was alone and he let his hands and mind wander.) 

He sat hypnotized until Peter brought him a bowl and sat down beside him.

“Anything else on?” Peter asked around a mouthful of noodles. “Sick of this guy.”

Flash didn’t bother arguing with him. Sure, Peter knew how Flash felt about the web-slinging vigilante, but to this day Flash could not understand Peter’s thoughts on him. He had asked him once if the rumors were true: if Spider-Man and Peter were acquainted, if they split the dough Pete got selling his pictures between them. Peter denied any sort of business transaction (a response Flash welcomed, because he staunchly believed Spider-Man didn’t do it for the money) and told Flash that more often than not, Spider-Man was just a pain in the neck.

Then how do you get the pictures? Surely he recognizes you by now? He’s saved you more than once, right? He knows your name, doesn’t he?

And Pete would look at him and laugh, as though Flash had told him a clever joke, and shake his head.

“Maybe one day I’ll let you in on my secret, sport,” he said once. And there was an irritating part of Flash would not let this half-hearted promise go; every so often he’d wonder how much longer he had to wait before Peter Parker let him in.

They found some cartoons and ate in relative silence.

There were boundaries in place. Like, Flash didn’t do Peter’s laundry when he was doing his own, and he wouldn’t ask Peter if he’d be home for dinner. They were roommates, not husband and wife.

At first, Flash didn’t realize Peter was angry. For one, he didn’t see much of him that day, which wasn’t unusual, and when Peter finally came home he simply stormed into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Peter did this on normal days, when he wasn’t angry, just stressed out or thinking.

But when dinner came around, Peter said he wasn’t hungry, and spent the next hour on the sofa staring at one of his bigger textbooks. And it wasn’t that Flash was studying him, or watching him, or anything like that, but he could have sworn Peter didn’t turn a single page. Flash cleaned up and went to the bathroom, and when he returned Peter was gone.

Uneasiness was beginning to settle in his stomach, but he did his best to ignore it, turning on a game show and melting into the sofa, which definitely put up a bit of a fight. The comfort level of this sofa was the only reason Peter shared the bed with him. This was a mantra he repeated to himself every time he sat on the rackety old thing. It had come with the apartment, and Flash was in no position to turn away free furniture, no matter how well he had served his country.

Finally, Flash’s eyes began to droop shut, and he realized that he couldn’t put off going to bed any longer. Peter was lying on the bed, a book propped up on his chest but still fully dressed. He glanced up at Flash when he entered the room, but that was as much as he chose to acknowledge him. Carefully, Flash approached his chest of drawers and retrieved a fresh set of pajamas to change into. That was another rule Flash had: while Peter on some nights had no problem stripping in front of him, Flash always retreated to the bathroom and hoped it didn’t come across as odd. He just couldn’t force himself to do it, no matter how many times they’d shared a locker room in high school; there was something so different about the two of them being alone, in his  _ bedroom _ .

God, he was such a wuss.

When he returned from the bathroom, Peter had moved. He was now sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to Flash, a tense line running down his spine. Flash barely had time to panic before Peter said, “You know you talk in your sleep? Sometimes it’s gibberish.”

Flash froze.

“What...” he began, but he was too afraid to finish the sentence. His mind raced through his past night, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember his dreams. He had woken with a sore chest — no, a sore heart — but that could mean any number of things.

_ Please _ , he prayed to a God he wasn’t all too sure about,  _ let me not have spoken about Peter. _

Peter stood and turned to face him, squaring him with a dangerous look. 

“How come you never told me about your dad?”

The air was ripped from Flash’s lungs. 

“What?” he breathed, dumbstruck.

“Your dad, Flash,” Peter repeated stonily. Flash could see the lines of his jaw flexing. “He hit you, didn’t he?”

It was that sequence of words that shocked Flash out of his stupor. He blinked repetitively, an all too familiar spark lighting in the depths of his chest as he struggled not to circle the bed and shove Peter into the wall.

“Why would I tell you?” he asked in disbelief.

“Have you told anyone? Anyone at all? Harry? MJ?”

“Of course not!”

And Peter had the gall to look irritated by this. 

“Well why not?” he asked, his tone so accusatory it baffled Flash more than anything else Parker had ever done.

“Why would I!?” retorted Flash. “Jesus Christ, Pete. Why the fuck would I?”

Peter stared him down, eyes flashing, but seemed at a loss for words. It was this opening that Flash tumbled through, unable to do anything other than push further.

“And how about you, huh?” he prompted, relishing in the flash of confusion that passed across Peter’s features. “You seeing a shrink?”

And Peter took the bait, because Peter always took the bait.

“Why would I need a shrink?” he inquired, his voice quieter, dangerous. The sound of it sent a shock down Flash’s spine, egging him on.

“You’re guilty, Pete,” he said plainly. “You feel guilty about what happened to Gwe—“

“Stop,” Peter interrupted. But of course, Flash wouldn’t.

“I’m not the only one who talks in his sleep, you know? Not that  _ that _ tipped me off,” he scoffed. “You’re a wreck, dude.”

“Yeah? My girlfriend  _ died _ !”

“And you never talk about it!” Flash retaliated. “You never talk about her and I miss her, too!”

Those last words rang in Flash’s ears, and in the silence that followed he regained enough sense to regret them.

Peter’s eyes were shining. But if they were tears, they were first and foremost angry ones.

“I’m going out.” His mouth barely moved as he spoke, but something in his tone made Flash hesitate to respond at once. When Peter began to move past him, Flash reached out a hand to place on his chest, said, “Wait–”, but Peter walked through him as if he wasn’t there.

“Pete!” Flash insisted, his voice strangled as he followed Peter out into the hall. “Pete, what the hell? Come back!  _ Pete _ !”

The front door slammed shut, and Flash found himself stuck in place in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Yeah?” he yelled down the empty hall. “Well, fuck you!” He wanted to hit something. Peter was probably out of earshot by now, but he said it again anyway. “Fuck you, Parker!”

He remembered a book they had read once at school, back in the third or fourth grade. In it, a character’s blood boiled. He was no big reader, and never had the chance to be. His reading comprehension was subpar, and he had always relied on Liz to help him out of the toughest binds at school; he would have been off the football team as soon as he got on it if not for her. But as he retreated into his bedroom and locked the door behind him with a deadbolt that he’d never used, Flash remembered that phrase, one of the only ones he truly understood on the first try: his blood  _ boiled _ . 

That asshole could take the sofa.

Flash woke the next morning to the sound of someone robbing the kitchen. Only a robber wouldn’t make so much noise. As he rolled over on his mattress, the sight of Peter’s empty side of the bed made his stomach drop, the way it did when you thought there was one more step at the top of the staircase, only to stumble stupidly in darkness.

He heard a sudden clatter through the wall, and the sound of Peter’s voice. He didn’t want to see Peter right now. 

He got out of bed, and went to see Peter.

“What the hell?” he demanded upon seeing the kitchen: there were eggshells everywhere, oil was burning in the frying pan and a smashed plate lay scattered across the floor.

“Breakfast,” said Peter, pulling out a chair and bowing elaborately. Sure enough, there was a plate on the table bearing scrambled eggs, black bacon and torn slices of toast, paired with a glass of orange juice. Flash didn’t budge. Early morning light was streaming through the window – it couldn’t be past seven, and it was a  _ Saturday _ – and Peter looked absolutely delirious. His hair was even more out of place than usual, and more surprisingly, he was being  _ nice _ . To  _ Flash _ .

“Did you sleep at all?” Flash said, because he had to say something.

“You’re welcome, Eugene,” Peter chirped, “Happy to help, Eugene.”

“If this is an apology…” Flash began, but words failed him as soon as he met Peter’s gaze. He was such a fucking goner. “Fucking fine,” he grunted, taking the chair from Peter and sitting himself down. “You’re a real case, Parker. You may have the rest of the world fooled, but not me.”

Peter took the chair opposite and laced his fingers together on the table’s surface.

“I’m sorry,” he said then.

Flash choked on his orange juice.

“Sorry? Can I get that again?”

“No,” Peter said automatically. Then his shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t mad at you. That was… it gets messed up.” He waved his hands around his head by way of explanation. “A lot of it.”

Peter waited for Flash to say something, but Flash couldn’t. He was in shock.

“I miss her,” Peter continued softly when Flash didn't speak. “I’ll talk about it.” He drummed his palms on the table and offered him a weak smile. “But not today. And you don’t have to… you know.”

Flash did know, and he wanted to point this out. He also wanted to say, W _ ho are you and what have you done with the real Peter Parker? _ But he stopped himself and picked up his fork.

He scooped some scrambled eggs into his mouth under Peter’s relieved gaze, but was much too tired to mask his disgust as the salty mess hit his tongue.

“Are they terrible?” Peter winced. Flash spat out part of an eggshell and Peter brought his hand to the back of his neck with the decency to look embarrassed.

“Are you trying to poison me?”

“No! I swear– I just– I didn’t sleep, actually.”

Flash waved a hand at him as he chugged orange juice to get the taste of disaster eggs off of his tongue. “Go, get your ass in bed!” he ordered, and Peter nodded gratefully.

“I think I might,” he agreed, pushing his chair back. “And Flash.” He paused, and looked Flash in the eye. His eyelids were drooping and there was a purple tint to the skin under his brown eyes, but he was definitely in there somewhere. Flash found it hard to hold his gaze – it was kind of like staring into the sun – but he held his own. “I wasn’t angry at you,” Peter said finally. “I acted badly. In fact… I’m never as angry at you as I used to be.”

“Me neither,” Flash found himself saying, and it was true. It had been for a while now. The anger that had stifled him as a teenager had slowly ebbed away… it was still there, but he could see himself more clearly now. He knew what had put it there, and he knew who he was beneath it.

For the smallest of moments, he wondered if Peter was like him.

_ No _ , he told himself quickly, just in time to watch a smile blossom across Peter’s face. It was lopsided and kind of goofy, and his sleep-deprivation didn’t help him look any less maniacal… but it still made Flash’s stomach swoop. It wasn’t until he was gone that Flash realized he was smiling, too.

“Aren’t I the luckiest girl in the world! Both bachelors in the same place at the same time!”

Mary Jane was sitting on the sofa beside Pete with her legs draped over his lap, and her bracelets jangled as she applauded Flash’s arrival.

“Mary Jane Watson!” Flash greeted, struggling to pull the key out of the lock. He put down his grocery bags and wiggled it out, reminding himself that he liked Mary Jane and was glad to see her. And he was glad to see her. He just wished it didn’t have to be  _ here _ .

“Anything tasty there?” she asked, leaning up to eye Flash’s bags. Her hair brushed Peter’s nose, and he wrinkled it, although he didn’t push her away. “Are you gonna spoil a girl to a home-cooked meal?”

“I was gonna make meatballs, actually. And you’re welcome to stay!”

MJ put her hands together again in delight.

“He cooks, too? Pete, you’ve landed a good one,” she cooed, finally pulling her legs off of him so she could face Flash in the kitchen.

“I’d say he’s the one who’s landed me.”

“Excuse me?” Flash interjected, unloading his groceries onto the kitchen counter. “You’re never here and all you can cook is ramen!”

“Exactly,” Peter said easily, putting his hands behind his head and kicking his feet up on the battered old coffee table Flash had found in a nearby dumpster. “Never had any complaints from Aunt May.”

“I seem to recall your Aunt constantly bemoaning the fact that you aren’t around,” Mary Jane pointed out. This seemed to sour Peter’s mood and MJ noticed. She turned to Flash while patting the sofa heartily. “Trophy husband or not, I can't  _ believe _ you subject Pete to this old thing every night! They built this the same day they invented the wheel!”

Flash opened his mouth to speak without a clue of what he was actually going to say, but Peter piped up just in time.

“I’m a strong boy, MJ,” he said, puffing out his chest, “I can handle it. Just… don’t tell aunt May.”

“I wouldn’t  _ dream _ of it,” Mary Jane assured him, and patted his knee with a daring familiarity only Mary Jane could pull off. “Oh, Flash! That’s why I’m here! I just got news that Harry will be up to visitors any day now!”

“Really? Cripes, that’s fantastic!” Because Flash missed Harry, he really did. He was the first friend he’d made at ESU and the total opposite of all the guys he’d known in high school. Sure, maybe he tried a bit too hard to please, but he didn’t have a malicious bone in his body, which is part of what made his becoming the Green Goblin so hard to believe. But he was sick, and this kind of sick was something that Flash could understand. He knew that 

Also, now that everything was out in the open, Flash understood Harry better than he understood most people. Although their upbringings couldn’t have been more different, they had one thing in common… although ‘violent alcoholic’ didn’t have the same ring to it as ‘neglectful supervillain millionaire’. But while now everyone knew the truth about Harry’s father, Peter was the only person who knew about Flash’s. And of course, how the hell could Parker understand? Flash had met Ben Parker once or twice, and was well aware of the love May Parker showered on her nephew.

But Harry… maybe Harry would understand.

“My thoughts exactly!” MJ agreed as Flash wondered if that was a selfish thought to have. First and foremost came making sure Harry was better, of course. And it wasn’t like Flash had the right to dump anything of his own onto the poor guy. 

“Let me know as soon as you go,” Flash told MJ. “I can’t wait to see him.”

Flash was already in bed when Peter came in and shucked off his t-shirt. Some nights, Peter slept shirtless. Flash had a complicated relationship with those nights.

He gave up on concentrating on the book he was reading — a space epic Harry had loaned him before everything had happened — and nodded towards Pete.

“How about Harry, huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, pulling on a pajama shirt. It was dark blue plaid and made Peter look like a grandpa. Better than shirtless, but not by much. “It’s great news.” He sounded strange, but Flash supposed that was somewhat warranted after Harry almost blew him up. He decided to change the subject.

“So…,” he said as Peter dropped onto the mattress beside him. He was not, apparently, changing out of his sweatpants — a maddening choice. “You didn’t tell MJ.”

Peter looked at him, a bushy eyebrow twitching ever so slightly.

“Neither did you,” he countered.

“You didn’t exactly give me a chance to–”

“It’s been two months. You’ve had time.” He changed his tone to something less accusing, If you wanted to, I mean.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Flash mumbled.

“I just didn’t think she needed to know,” shrugged Peter, dropping his head onto his pillow and kicking aside the blankets to get under them. “That’s all.”

“No. She doesn’t.”

Brown eyes fixed upon Flash’s face. “Do you want to tell her?”

“No,” Flash admitted.

“No,” Peter echoed, sounding somewhat relieved. “Okay. And it’s no big deal. It’s just… none of her business.”

“No, it’s no big deal,” agreed Flash.

“We’re just two guys… living together. And there’s only one bed. That’s not weird.”

“Nope.”

Peter squinted in consideration. “It’s kind of weird,” he reassessed.

“You wanna go back to the sofa?” Flash prompted. When Peter didn’t answer, he said, “Then stop making it a thing.”

“I’m not making it a thing,” Peter shrugged, shaking his head affably, “I’m not. I’m just saying…”

“Have you started looking for a place?”

Peter blinked, caught off guard.

“Huh?”

“Your own place. You freeloader,” Flash added then, to soften the blow.

“Oh,” Peter said, shifting under the covers. “Yeah, of course.” Flash’s stomach sank. “But you know… the market. And aunt May, you know. She–”

“Dude, I know,” Flash interrupted, regretting having brought it up in the first place. “I was just wondering.”

“Yeah. That makes sense,” Peter allowed. “You need more for rent?”

“No, no! No… No, rent’s fine.”

“Are you sick of me or something?” Peter said. His tone was joking, but there seemed to be something else lurking underneath. He wasn’t looking Flash in the eye, instead focusing on some lint he had between his fingers.

“No,” Flash said, and it came out softer than he intended. “No, I’m not sick of you.”

Peter looked up then, and his expression took Flash completely off guard. His lips were slightly parted and brown eyes were open, nothing guarding them at all. Flash’s breath caught in his chest, and Peter swallowed – Flash saw the bob of his Adam’s apple, its movement triggering an all-too familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Peter cleared his throat and looked away. Flash followed suit, fingers searching desperately through the pages of his novel and then hissing when he got a paper cut.

Eyebrows raised, Peter looked back just in time to see Flash pop his index finger in his mouth, swearing as he did so. Peter straightened, pulling himself up so he was sitting beside him, and when their eyes met Flash saw that the odd look in his eyes was still there. His cheeks warmed, and, as if jolted by an electrical current, he self-consciously pulled his finger out of his mouth.

“Paper cut,” he said, even though it may have been self explanatory. Peter pressed his lips together, not saying a word. Flash wiped his spit-slick finger on his shirt, only afterwards wondering if he should have taken a more cleanly route. Not that it mattered. This was Peter Parker, a guy he did not have to impress, a guy he had nothing to prove to. Especially not at this hour and especially not in his own apartment.

“Is it bad?” Peter finally asked.

Flash shook his head, then shrugged. “No, it’s nothing.”

He picked his book back up, hoping to God his hands weren’t trembling too noticeably. Why was Peter looking at him like that? And why was it making him so jumpy?

Finally, Peter moved again. He leaned over the side of the bed and picked up one of his textbooks, a worn out thing with post-it notes sticking out from every which way. He pulled it onto his lap, opened it and appeared to immediately lose himself in the formulas and charts covering its pages.

Willing his breathing to go back to normal, Flash stared at his own book. His finger stung badly and was ridiculously difficult to ignore. Quietly, he pressed his lips to the side of his finger, ears heating up as he did so.

“ _ God _ , your feet are freezing,” Peter blurted out, his voice as natural as it had ever been. “What’s up with that?”

Flash kept his finger pressed to his lips as he replied, “Just don’t touch my feet,” both mystified by and thankful for the change in subject.

“I don’t do it on purpose!” protested Peter, throwing his hand up. “Just, under the covers, things brush together!”

“Again, the sofa is still  _ right _ there–” Flash warned.

Peter grumbled something unintelligible and once again seemed to disappear into his textbook. After a couple of minutes of staring at words he barely understood, Flash decided that Harry’s novel would have to wait until another day. He set it on his bedside table and slunk under his covers.

“Want me to turn out the light?” Peter asked in an absent voice. He sounded miles away.

“No, knock yourself out.”

Flash turned on his side, his back to Peter, shut his eyes and willed himself to go to sleep. If he slept, then this night would end, and the sooner it did the better.

But minutes passed and sleep did not come. It felt like his mind was on fire, burning with thoughts that came and went before he had any time to make sense of them. His stupid papercut ached, and so did the rest of him, but in a different way. Peter would shift slightly beside him, and his stomach would do summersaults. Two months, two months they had shared a bed, but the knots in his stomach had never been as bad as tonight.

It wasn’t weird. It wasn’t weird that Flash hadn’t told MJ. That Peter hadn’t told her… Peter just didn’t want to subject himself to MJ’s insinuations, that was all. Not that there was anything to insinuate– definitely not from Peter’s side of things, anyway. 

Behind him, Peter groaned innocuously and turned off the lamp.

The room was still.

Flash waited impatiently for Peter’s breaths to even out. As soon as Peter fell asleep, he would be safe. He would be alone. He would be able to breathe again.

Peter rolled onto his side, the mattress creaking underneath him. A few moments passed, and he rolled over again. Flash kept himself still, so as not to give himself away, but it was hard when Peter seemed to be having a wrestling match with the covers inches away from him.

“ _ Dude _ ,” he finally said, prompted by Peter accidentally kicking his calf.

“Sorry,” Peter whispered, and it sent shivers down Flash’s spine. 

Flash was going to have to get a sofa bed. Tomorrow morning, as soon as he was able. He’d get breakfast at a deli and find a store that did same-day delivery. He’d pay them extra if he had to.

Peter yawned, stretched, and became still.

Flash wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he woke. Peter had just kicked him, purposefully, once again hitting his leg. Sleep-fogged and irritated, Flash kicked him back.

Peter retaliated, and this time, Flash protested out loud.

“Hey!” he said, twisting to look the culprit in the eye.

“Your feet are freezing, dude!” Peter said, his face scrunched up in the darkness. 

“Stick to your side of the bed, then!”

“I did! I  _ am _ !” said Peter, and, mortified, Flash realized it was true. His head was on the edge of Peter’s pillow and Peter was crowded towards the edge of the mattress, his hair sticking up in that way that drove Flash’s thoughts crazy.

The hair was not important. Flash shuffled back over to his side, and, as if  _ he _ were the crowded animal in this scenario, kicked Peter once more for good measure.

“What–?” Peter gasped, and although it was dark, Flash could make out the twist of a laugh on his lips. Peter kicked him back, and suddenly the night’s earlier events — or rather, non-events — flooded back into Flash’s memory, but he had no idea what to do with them.

Freeing an arm from under the covers, Flash shoved Peter's shoulder, and Peter shoved him back, and they were both laughing – quiet, breathy laughs – when Peter grabbed Flash’s wrist and Flash struggled against him.

“Oh, no you don’t–” Peter said when Flash threw his own pillow at him with his free hand. Flash kicked out and Peter kicked back, the covers tangling in his legs, which helped Flash get the upper hand. He wrestled Peter towards the edge of the bed, until Peter’s head was hanging over the edge of the mattress and Flash was kneeling beside him, one knee between Peter’s legs, holding him down with a pillow pressed to his chest.

“Any last words, Parker?” said Flash, because he could do this in his sleep – no pun intended. Fighting with Peter had always come as naturally as liking him had.

Peter’s chest was heaving underneath the pillow, and the orange glow from the street lights outside caught on free strands of his hair. His lips twitched, as if he had just thought of a particularly funny joke, and Flash felt as if his own chest were caving in.

What happened next, Flash barely understood. One moment, he was over Peter, breathless but winning and the next… somehow, Peter had flipped them over, the blankets and pillow between them lost, Flash’s head almost dangling off the other end of the mattress. Flash blinked away his disorientation in time to see the satisfied smirk on Peter’s face morph into something else.

Because Peter was sitting on top of him now, straddling him, his hands pressing Flash’s wrists into the mattress either side of him. And Flash was hard. And Peter had noticed.

The walls of Flash’s bedroom caved in.

“I don’t—” he stammered, Peter’s weight crushing down on him, “it’s not—”

Peter surged forward and kissed him.

His lips were dry and warm and bruising, and for a moment, Flash saw stars.  _ No way.  _ No way this was happening. But Peter’s tongue brushed his and a noise escaped his throat, a hum that echoed shamefully in his own ears, grounding him, terrifying him.

Peter was not put off by the sound – no spell was broken. Flash found himself kissing him back, his arms snaking around Peter’s neck to pull him closer, his body moving of its own accord — traitor, ally.

“Pete–” Flash gasped, unable to stop himself.

Peter still wasn’t deterred. He pressed his hips into Flash’s, a hard, heavy motion that made the former quarterback’s insides burn.

“Oh–” said Flash. Peter smiled into his mouth – Flash could feel him  _ smiling _ – and in an effort at retaliation, Flash bucked his hips upwards. Although wholly unprepared for how good Peter’s crotch against his rapidly growing erection was, he had managed to elicit a gasp from Peter, and Flash felt a surge of victory mixed with something else. 

With a low groan, Peter’s mouth fell away from Flash’s lips and onto the side of his mouth, his jaw… his kisses grew sloppier as he began to roll his hips into Flash’s with a newfound determination, developing a searing rhythm as he braced himself with one elbow on the side of Flash’s head. Flash wanted to keep kissing, wanted to turn his head to meet him, but he was too dazed to do anything but steel himself through the pressure of Peter’s hips on his, eyes shut tight. If he opened them, it might turn out to be a dream.

“Hey,” Peter panted into the skin under Flash’s ear. “Look at me.”

Flash did as he was told, as if caught under a spell – and his response made Peter grin. It was a pointed and dangerous smile, wavering only slightly as Peter shifted his weight, dipping his hand down between them. Flash gasped when Peter’s hand slipped under the elastic of Flash’s joggers to palm Flash’s crotch through the thin fabric of his boxers, and Peter’s grin deepened before flickering into a darker expression. He pressed his lips to Flash’s once more, and Flash licked into his mouth readily, anchoring himself in the kiss as Peter coaxed his hips up only to pull down Flash’s sweats and briefs down in one smooth, filthy gesture.

Flash’s erection sprung free and Peter wasted no time in spitting in his palm and wrapping his hand around it. His hand was warm and rough, the spit doing little to ease the grip, but when he felt Peter pulling away from him he pulled Peter’s head closer, unwilling to let Peter see the look that was colouring his own face pink. Peter went along with it, kissing him wetly as he began pulling at Flash’s erection with what felt like a tentative grip. Flash knew then that this was the first time Peter had done anything like this, but he had little headspace to consider what that really meant. Heat was pooling inside of him, electricity was shooting up his spine and the sound of his own breathing seemed to fill up the room around them. Peter wasn’t kissing him anymore, and when Flash opened his eyes, he saw that the dark haired boy’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he moved his hand – the same stupid look he used to wear in science class, not that Flash was ever looking – and for some reason the sight of it hurt Flash’s chest.

“Peter,” slipped out, because this was him, this was Peter Parker, his rival, his friend, his… 

“Come on,” Peter said, something flashing in his eyes. He tightened his grip and slowed down his strokes, working rougher now, making Flash squirm. “Say my name,” his voice was level, dangerous; familiar and foreign all at once. “Say it. Don’t get all shy on me now, Thompson.”

“Parker,” Flash said, and it came out like a moan. He swallowed, then took a deep breath. “Pete.”

Peter kissed him, and Flash moaned into his mouth as he came. It had never been like this, never been this blinding. Peter continued to kiss him as he came over his own shirt and Peter’s stupid green pajama flannel, coaxing him through as the waves of stars subsided, leaving a dizzying sunrise in their wake.

Peter kissed him once, twice, on the corner of his mouth, on his jaw, and rolled onto his back beside him.

Flash stared at the ceiling. A car passed by in the street below, painting a stripe of light over a crack in the plaster — and then it was gone. 

His sleep shirt was wet and sticky, but he didn’t move to pull it off. He didn’t know if he could move at all. His limbs, his heart, his head felt numb. He was still breathing loudly, but the room was coming back into focus. The hum of the pipes in the wall, the fridge in the kitchen, dull footsteps of a neighbor overhead. 

This was real. He was here.

Beside him, Peter sighed, followed with a short, disbelieving sort of laugh. Flash turned his head, ready to say something… but he had no idea what. Peter met Flash’s eye, the two of them lying side by side across the mattress, and let out another amused huff. Flash swallowed and licked his lips, allowing himself to come back, to be himself again. 

Then he noticed Peter’s shoulder was moving. He followed the length of his arm to see Peter’s hand lost under the waistband of his own sweats, and said, “Let me.”

Peter started at his voice, and Flash tried not to let it deter him. He was surprised at himself too, but with each passing second he was more and more sure of the fact that he wanted to suck Peter’s dick so badly.

Peter’s forehead was slick with sweat, his lips were pink, and his arm was moving distractedly as Peter stared curiously into Flash’s eyes from underneath dark eyelashes.

Flash swallowed again and sat up. He pulled off his shirt and Peter watched. Flash had nothing to be ashamed of, he knew this. Still, he was unprepared for the set of Peter’s jaw and the heat of his gaze. Never,  _ never _ , would Flash ever have even imagined Peter Parker looking at him that way.

He rolled his ruined shirt up and used it to wipe his stomach, his legs. Awkwardly, he decided to shift out of his sweats and underwear, swallowing away his insecurities. What could he possibly have to hide anymore?

Peter didn’t look away, and he didn’t stop moving his arm.

“Pete,” Flash said, his own voice an odd anchor in his alien bedroom, “Can I, uh… blow you?”

Peter stopped moving. An odd laugh escaped his throat, and Flash almost died then and there. But then, Peter said, “Yeah, man. Fuck. Okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Flash repeated, bewildered.

“Go for it,” Peter said, the slight crack in his voice the only thing supporting the idea that he knew exactly what he had just agreed to. 

Flash felt a lurch in his stomach, the gravity of it all washing over him like a tide of guilt, embarrassment, disbelief. He kicked himself out of it, because it was sink or swim, balancing on a highwire. He crawled between Peter’s legs and bent down, a thrill rushing through his spine at the sight of him lying there, waiting.

Gingerly, Flash hooked his fingers around the elastic of Peter’s sweats. When he hesitated – breath catching in his throat, this couldn’t be happening – Peter helped him along, shuffling out of his pants and underwear and smirking when Flash’s eyes widened at the sight of him. More flexible than Flash had ever given him credit for, he pulled up his knees and allowed Flash to pull his bottoms off the rest of the way. He then put his feet back down, one either side of where Flash was knelt, and leaned upwards on his elbows. He didn’t look bashful or embarrassed – he definitely had nothing to be embarrassed about – but uncertain all of a sudden.

“You still–” he began to ask, but Flash cut him off, not bothering to mask the eagerness in his voice.

“Yeah. Yes. Fuck.”

Peter was huge – not as thick as Flash, but longer and a shade of red that was making Flash’s mouth water. Fuck, he was gay. His own cock was twitching again already, because how could it not be, but he focused himself on the man before him. Refusing to overthink it any longer, Flash wrapped his hand around the base of it, trying not to marvel too much at the sight of him in his hand pressed an open mouthed kiss to the tip. Peter dropped onto his back with a sharp intake of breath, and Flash took the rest of him in his mouth.

Peter’s hips jerked in surprise and Flash gagged a little around him. “Sorry,” Peter said breathlessly, and Flash’s dick hardened. “Keep going,” Peter instructed, and Flash did. “Yeah, yeah, like that. Fuck. Fuck, yeah. Oh, god.”

Flash wrapped one hand around Peter’s ankle, and let the other wander under Peter’s leg, pressing his fingertips into the meat of Peter’s thigh for better purchase. Peter wouldn’t stop muttering words of encouragement, squirming underneath him – Flash was no expert at blowjobs and he found it hard to believe that he was by any means an expert, and he was too nervous to take Peter in too deep, but it was clear that Peter really didn’t seem to care.

“Shit,” he said, and his hands found Flash’s head, his fingers threading through his hair. “You’re doing great– amazing,” he breathed, and Flash almost wanted to laugh. This was the most praise he had ever received from Peter in all their years knowing each other, and all it had taken was Flash’s mouth on his dick. If he had known sooner… Peter’s grip on his hair tightened a little, a warning.

“Flash– I’m gonna–”

Flash pulled off of him in time to get his cheek smeared with Peter’s come – in time to see the look on Peter’s face as he came. His eyes were clenched shut tight, eyebrows raised in what almost seemed to be surprise. Without giving it much thought, Flash climbed over him, leant his chest on Peter’s, folded his arms across Peter’s collarbones. When Peter opened his eyes, Flash was watching, waiting. For what, he wasn’t sure.

Peter’s eyes were a dark brown in regular light, but tonight they looked almost black. His eyelashes fluttered, and his cheekbones shone. He was so beautiful, even now, even up close. That was really too bad.

Peter’s breath was warm and tickled Flash’s face. He watched Flash as intently as Flash watched him, and for a moment they just lay there, sticky and warm and spent. Flash wondered what Peter was thinking. Flash himself found he couldn’t think of much at all. The unevenness of Peter’s eyebrows, the small nick of a scar under his left eye Flash had never noticed before.

“Hey,” Peter said finally, his voice soft. He brought his hand up to Flash’s head again, his fingers ghosting across the back of his neck before settling into his hair. “C’mere.”

And Flash did. 

For the first time since Peter had arrived, Flash was the first to wake. Peter was snoring loudly in his ear, his arm slung across Flash’s chest. It wasn’t heavy, but still, Flash felt as if his chest might collapse. Slowly, he peeled Peter’s arm off of him and slipped out of bed, cringing at his nakedness as his bare feet touched the floor. Peter continued to snore, so Flash grabbed the robe that hung from the closet door and crept out of the bedroom and into the bathroom.

He stayed in the shower long after the hot water ran out, deciding that the cold would do him good. It would wake him up, make him human again. But all it really did was turn his skin blue and numb.

A knock at the bathroom door startled Flash out of his reverie, and he banged his forehead on the tiles he had been resting it on.

“A minute!” he called out in a short, clipped voice. His teeth were chattering. Fuck. 

He turned the faucet and stepped out of the tub, his hand shaking violently as he wrapped a towel around his waist. He was reaching for his robe when the knob turned and the door opened to reveal a sleep creased Peter Parker. Flash fumbled with the tie as Peter gave him what could only be described as an appreciative once-over.

“ _ Goooood _ morning,” he said with a wink. Although his feet were planted firmly on the linoleum, Flash almost fell over. Peter danced into the small space, now donning an apologetic smile. “I kinda need the bathroom.”

Flash managed to speak, but only barely. “Oh– Oh, yeah.”

“You’ve been in here a while,” Peter added, circling him. He was only on his way to the toilet, but Flash circled with him, unwilling to turn his back on him. He looked… he looked fine. He looked absolutely fine.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Flash said, but Peter was already pulling down his sweatpants in front of the toilet. Flash scurried out of the bathroom like a frightened animal, hair dripping wet and the door clipping shut behind him. 

Peter was fine. Peter was… Peter was the same.

No. Peter was worse than the same. Flash scrambled to get dressed before Peter could make another impromptu appearance, all the while replaying the look Peter had just given him in his mind. Surely that had been a joke, right? Fuck, what was wrong with him, he had literally let Flash suck his dick–

A loud yawn announced Peter’s exit from the bathroom, but he didn’t reenter the bedroom, instead continuing onto the living room. Relieved, Flash sat on the bed, zipping and unzipping his sweatshirt and listening as Peter opened and closed the fridge, turned on the TV, switched to cartoons… He couldn’t stay here forever.

He dried his hair with his towel a little too forcefully, flattened it with his hand, took a deep breath and stood up.

Peter was lounging on the sofa, one leg tossed over an armrest, a bowl of cereal resting on his stomach.

“I’ll be out your hair in a minute,” he said upon Flash’s entrance. Flash stopped in his tracks. “Gotta head to the Bugle before class.”

Flash was beginning to suspect Peter was insane. He shook his head.

“Uh,” he said from the doorway, “We need to talk. About what happened.”

Peter looked up at him again, this time with a small smile.

“Kind of made things awkward, huh?”

“Yeah!” cried Flash. “Yeah, you—” he took a deep breath, “ _ we _ did. I don’t think you can stay here anymore.”

Peter sighed and straightened, balancing his bowl on the armrest. Flash wished he wouldn’t do that. If it spilled... Peter laced his fingers together – his fingers, Flash suddenly remembered – and nodded slowly at the floor. “I kinda guessed,” he admitted finally.

Flash stared at him. “Then...Why...?”

Peter shrugged. “It was worth it.” He winked, and Flash’s heart skipped a beat. He wanted to tear his head off. He wanted to kiss him again.

He shook his head. 

“I don’t think you understand.” His voice trembled slightly, and only a small quirk of an eyebrow indicated that Peter had noticed. “That... last night... you know. That wasn’t a fluke, or a one-time thing. Pete, I’m gay.”

Peter squinted at him, as if not understanding.

“I like men. Exclusively. It wasn’t like... a fun slip-up for me. I mean, it was. Fun. Of course. Parker, I’ve had a crush on you since forever.” The words fell out of his mouth like mud water sputtering out of an open faucet. They left a sour taste on his tongue but the damage was done. 

Peter was staring at him, and Flash remembered the way he had stared at Flash last night, in the dark. This was different.

“A crush?” 

Flash regretted the wording – he sounded like a fourteen year old – but not the message. He nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” 

And that was all.

The silence that followed dug into Flash’s stomach. Peter was still looking at him, but his eyes were hard, inscrutable.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally. Gone was the flirty Peter from seconds ago. He was sombre now, his thick eyebrows drawn together and his jaw set. Flash clenched his own teeth and folded his arms across his chest, barricading his heart in.

“No, you didn’t,” he agreed.

“I…” Peter began. Then he deflated. “Sorry,” he said finally. And that was all Flash needed to hear. This was why Flash had to come clean. Peter wasn’t like Flash, no matter what had happened last night. They couldn’t be more different. 

Peter shifted on the sofa.

“So…” he swallowed, “I made things more awkward than I at first thought.”

“Pretty much.”

Peter nodded.

“So... I’ll go?”

Flash was getting tired of pretending there wasn’t a lump in his throat. He just nodded. Peter got to his feet. The bowl on the armrest wobbled and fell, but not far. Peter’s arm shot up and he stopped it moments before it hit the ground, but the damage was done. Milk and soggy cornflakes splattered across the sofa and floor and Peter’s hand.

“Shit,” he cursed, cringing at the mess he’d made. “I’ll clean this up. Then… then I’ll get my things.”

“I got it,” Flash said, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

“I can–” 

“I got it.”

Peter closed his mouth and, after a moment, handed Flash the bowl.

“Uh, thanks,” Peter said ten minutes later, duffel bag in hand, foot out of the door. “For the hospitality. And... yeah. See you around?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Peter nodded, then slipped out of the apartment and closed the door.

Flash let out a breath and, still holding the wet cloth he was using to get the milk out of the upholstery, sat down on his sofa. Fuck. It was uncomfortable.

Flash’s apartment was by no means very big, but it was slightly underfurnished. The television he had bought himself, but everything else pretty much had been here when he had moved in. The paisley coloured kitchen cabinets and the uneven dishes within them; the round table with its uneven leg and the sickly yellow plastic table cloth that was a bit too small for it; the sofa, boney and with noisy joints, had probably been in the place since the day it was built.

Flash had bought the mattress. There hadn’t been one when he moved in, just a bedframe with a few screws and boards loose.

He lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling. His mattress was too big, his apartment too empty. His paper cut still throbbed. And when he finally slept, he dreamt of his father.

When Peter had said, “See you around?” Flash didn’t think to take it to heart. It wasn’t like they were in the same classes, it wasn’t as if they had the hallways of Midtown stringing them together. They had Gwen, who was gone, and Harry, who was absent. Flash didn’t think MJ was his friend – or at least, she was Peter’s acquaintance before his own. She had only hung around for Pete anyway, at least at the very beginning. And maybe she had grown close with Gwen, but with his continued absences, Flash couldn’t fool himself into believing that she and him were close enough for occasional get-togethers. He didn’t even have her number and had no idea where she lived. Did she live with her aunt? Had she ever lived with her aunt, or was she only ever just visiting? And if she was just visiting, where did she usually live? No, Flash knew very little about MJ. Maybe he would bump into her at the Coffee Bean again someday. He could ask for her number then. Maybe.

He didn’t know where he would bump into Peter. He didn’t even know if he wanted to.

Alone in his apartment, he found himself regressing to his high school self: torn between dreading the sight of Parker and hoping so badly for an excuse to talk to him. Poke him. Call him names.

A week into his new, lonely life, Flash got a phone call. It wasn’t from home, and it wasn’t from MJ or Peter. It was from Harry.

Well, Harry’s doctor.

“Mr Osborn listed you as a potential visitor,” the brisk voice said on the other end of the line.

Flash blinked into his empty kitchen. “He did?”

“I understand you may be busy,” said the doctor, his tone turning cold, “but Mr Osborn would benefit greatly from company–”

“No, no, I want to–” Flash interrupted. “Of course I’ll come. When?”

Flash left for the hospital the very next day. He took the train to Long Island, his scarf knotted around his throat and his knee bouncing up and down. The building was red brick with a green driveway Flash had to walk across. The main doors were oak and frosted glass, and Flash had to wait in the cold to be let in.

The visitor center kind of reminded him of the high school cafeteria, but quieter and a lot more pleasant. No one looked up when he entered, and Flash couldn’t tell who were patients, who were doctors and who were just visiting. A group sat at the table nearest the windows working on a puzzle much larger than anything Flash would ever have patience for, and a couple laughed nearby, their cheeks rosey and their hands wound together.

Flash had followed the nurse down hallways and across a small vegetable garden, but he didn’t need her help finding the ginger-haired man reading quietly at a table in the middle of the room. She lead him to Harry’s table anyway, and when they arrived, she cleared her throat and introduced him.

Harry looked up and Flash’s nerves melted away. A smile blossomed across his face and his eyes lit up before he jumped to his feet and grabbed Flash’s forearm in a hearty shake. Flash pulled him in the extra inches, enveloping him in a hug, and the nurse left them to their own devices.

“How’ve you been?” Flash asked as they sat down across from each other. “It’s so good to see you!”

“You too, Flash,” Harry said, still beaming. He was leaning forward across the table, his arms folded underneath him. “You, too.”

“I mean, you look great!”

“It’s the hippie diet they have us on in here,” Harry said, waving a hand. “They make us grow our own vegetables.”

“That’s sick, man. I can’t remember the last time I ate a vegetable that didn’t come in a can.”

Harry laughed and shook his head. “That’s atrocious. A strapping young man such as yourself!”

“ _ Atrocious _ ,” Flash repeated, shaking his head in turn. “God, Harry, I missed you, man,” he said, and he meant it. “It’s bleak out there, you know. Real bleak.”

“Can’t wait to get back out, then. Thanks for the talk.” 

“Nah, it’ll be better with you there.” He shifted and swallowed, fixing Harry with a careful look. “But how are you? Really?”

Harry pressed his lips together, his expression dampening. He was still skinnier than Flash was used to, his cheekbones protruding and his neck thin, but his color was good. “Better. My dad’s still dead. Gwen, too.” He looked down at his hands clenched around his biceps, and Flash noticed that his fingernails were chewed short. “But… I’m clean. Which… yeah. I’m clean.” He met Flash’s eyes and smiled ruefully. “They tell me that’s good.”

Flash wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Have… have you seen anyone else? The old crew? Or am I the first?”

At the change of subject, Harry’s shoulders relaxed. “MJ was here last week, actually.”

“Oh, really?”

Mary Jane Watson. She was brave. Flash knew that she had been torn up over what happened to Harry… maybe even more than anybody else. Fearless Mary Jane had broken his heart only days before, not knowing that everyone wasn’t as strong as she was. Flash knew she thought it was her fault. Some of it, at least.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “She gave me  _ all _ the updates.” He paused, smirking slightly. “You and Pete lived together? Boy, what I would have done to catch that on cable.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not as glamorous as you’d think.”

“Oh, I do not think it was glamorous, don’t worry about that. I doubt Pete knows the meaning of the word. I’m surprised the two of you survived it.”

“Only barely,” Flash said, and he meant it. If Harry had spoken to MJ, maybe he knew where Peter was now. Not that it made any difference to Flash… but still, he found himself asking, “So, what about Pete?”

“He’s been busy,” said Harry, waving a dismissing hand, but Flash wasn’t fooled. “I get it.”

“I don’t.” At Harry’s surprised look, Flash shrugged. “I don’t get it,” he repeated. “He should come.”

“I’ll be out soon enough.”

Flash shrugged again.

“He should come.”

Because if it was Mary Jane’s fault, it was Peter’s, too. And Flash’s. Harry had slipped out right out from under them, and that shouldn’t have happened. If Peter felt guilty, that was okay. What wasn’t okay was this. Flash was beginning to understand the tone Harry’s doctor had taken with him on the phone, and wondered if he had called Peter moments earlier only to receive a world famous Parker excuse or two.

“Well,” Harry said after a moment. “I did blow him up.”

Flash stared at him. The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. A beat passed, and the two of them dissolved into laughter and god, Flash had missed Harry. He really had.

“Well, if you need a new roommate when you get out, I have plenty of experience being blown up and I promise you I won’t take it too personally.”

“So you and Pete really did break up?”

“Break up?” Flash frowned, fighting to keep his easy smile on his face. 

“Yeah, MJ mentioned something–”

“What?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “So something did happen?”

“No, no, nothing– nothing happened. Peter’s just… you know. Pete.”

“Yeah… I guess I do,” Harry allowed, although he seemed a little uneasy. “You’re okay, right, Flash?”

Flash snorted awkwardly, but Harry’s stare didn’t waver. “C’mon. I’m the one who should be asking you–”

Harry gestured around him. “I have all the help I could possibly need right now. I’m better than okay. But…” he raised his eyebrows, “it’s bleak out there.”

Flash chewed on the inside of his cheek. No. His problems – they weren’t problems. They weren’t anything worth bothering Harry about, anyway. Hippie diet or no, Harry had enough on his plate as it was.

Flash reached out and squeezed Harry’s wrist.

“I’m okay, Harr. And so are you.”

Flash saw in Harry’s eyes a look he had seen before in Peter’s. His hazel eyes were open and Flash knew that his mind was working fast behind them.

“Okay,” he said finally, coming to a conclusion Flash wasn’t privy to.

Flash squeezed his wrist one more time, and let go.

Before Flash left, Harry had given him another pulp novel from his room. On its cover stood a scantily clad man with a sword against a space backdrop, and Flash had to wonder if maybe Harry was onto him after all. “This one,” he had said, patting the cover right on the hero’s oily chest, “is particularly trashy. I think it may be my favorite yet. He  _ fucks _ an  _ alien _ .”

Flash didn’t know why exactly Harry thought that would sell him on it, and frankly, he was too afraid to ask. He took the train back into Manhattan and spent the day wandering the streets with Harry’s trashy book in hand, feeling, for the first time in a while, that he wasn’t completely alone. He chose to attribute this feeling to the gesture of receiving a book from a friend, rather than to a story about a man fucking an alien. But by the time he arrived back at his apartment, long after the sun had set, it didn’t seem as empty as it had the day before. He set the book down on the sofa and turned on the television to have background noise on while he ate his take-out. He was feeling, he realized as he ate a spring roll, almost hopeful. Spider-Man, of course, soon came on the news, and Flash put all his effort into watching him glide across the screen, unwilling to let his thoughts slip in case they went somewhere he didn’t want to follow.

“Ugh,” said a voice from the window. “Hate that guy.”

Flash almost threw the table over.

Peter was leaning into the kitchen, cold air seeping in around his edges. Flash’s heart was hammering in his chest and his lungs felt tight.

“You don’t fucking sneak up on an army veteran, you  _ dick _ !” he yelled, and Peter had the decency to look surprised, then embarrassed. “What the heck are you doing on the fire escape?” Flash said then, fully taking in the scene before him. “It hasn’t been checked in decades! Are you  _ bleeding _ ?”

“Can I come in?” Peter croaked, and Flash was by his side, pulling him into the apartment.

“Been crashing on MJ’s couch,” Peter told him as he climbed through. “ _ Wayyy _ comfier than yours, I have to say. But,” he slowly sunk onto the floor under Flash’s hands, leaning his back against the wall, “her roommates are kind of bitchy.”

Flash closed the window, locked it (until this very moment he’d never worried about anyone making it in through the fire escape), and stood up to get a better look at his friend. Peter was bleeding – a brown stain ran from under his nose, over his mouth and down his chin, and his right eye was red and swollen. His jacket was ripped, too, and his knuckles were coloured crimson.

“Jesus, Pete,” Flash breathed. “What the hell happened to you?”

Peter, to Flash’s disbelief, smiled. His smile was red. “I’m still Pete,” he said.

He was delirious.

There was a first aid kit under the bathroom sink, yet another thing left behind by previous tenants. Flash had never had an occasion to check its contents, but tonight he was relieved to find it relatively well-stocked.

He led Peter to the sofa and Peter did not protest when Flash started wiping the crusted blood off of his face with a wet cloth. There turned out to be an ugly split in Peter’s bottom lip under all that red, and Flash couldn’t stop a sharp intake of breath when he saw it.

“You should see the other guys,” Peter said sagely, as if it was nothing, and Flash got the odd feeling that Peter wasn’t actually hurt. His eyes were too bright, and his speech was too stilted. But that was ludacris — was his blood not now on Flash’s hands?

“ _ Guys _ ?” Flash asked.  _ Plural? _

Peter waved a hand.

“They’re history.”

“Geez, Parker.”

“Parker,” Peter sighed dramatically, slouching out of reach of Flash’s wet cloth. “So I guess you hate me again, now.”

“I never hated you,” Flash said quickly. Peter arched an eyebrow, and Flash relented. “Well, maybe a little. But you’re super annoying.”

“A little?” Peter snorted, then winced. His lip started bleeding again. “Try a lot.”

“No,” Flash said, wetting the cloth and pressing it to Peter’s mouth dutifully. “Not a lot. Now, what the hell happened?”

“Hm,” Peter said from behind the cloth, as if he hadn’t been expecting the question and was now caught off guard. Flash watched as he weighed the question with care. “Some kid was getting mugged,” he said finally after taking the cloth from Flash. “I stepped in.”

“ _ You _ ?” Flash huffed in astonishment.

“Yeah,” said Peter, “me.”

“Well, don’t do that next time.”

“Why not?”

“Well, look at you!”

Peter met his eyes squarely. The silence dragged. Flash was looking at him, and Pete wasn’t scrawny like he had been once. Surely, after the other night, Flash would know that better than anyone.

But, he was still covered in blood.

“You’re an idiot,” Flash huffed finally.

“Oh, I am, am I?”

“Yeah.” Flash gestured at the first aid kit on his knees, the bloody bowl of water. “You’re clearly not invincible.”

Peter’s eyes twinkled. “What if I was?”

“But you’re  _ not _ ,” Flash said, although he felt more like he was telling himself than Peter. “Look at me. I’m covered in your blood.”

But Peter had clearly checked out of the conversation and was now stretching out his fingers, wincing at intervals. Flash couldn’t believe him. He really couldn’t.

Peter didn’t protest when Flash disinfected a deep cut on his knuckles and then put a bandaid over it. It wasn’t weird, Flash touching him like this, because Peter wasn’t really here. He was staring off into the distance, and more than once his hand dropped away from where it was holding the cloth to his lip.

Flash got up to change the water, and when he returned, Peter was holding Harry’s book, studying its cover with a bemused look on his face.

“ _Beyond The_ _Wormhole_?” he asked.

“Harry gave it to me,” Flash said.

“Oh,” Peter said. “Does he… know about you?”

Flash snatched the book out of Peter’s hand, and Peter pressed his lips together as if determined not to laugh.

“Fuck off,” Flash said, putting the book on the kitchen table, away from Peter’s bloody hands.

“I’m sorry– no, sorry,” Peter said, still stifling laughter. “I’m sure it’s great literature.”

“Seriously Parker, fuck off,” Flash repeated. “What’s your excuse?”

“Excuse for what?”

“For not going to see Harry,” Flash said, and all laughter vanished from Peter’s face. “I went to see him. MJ saw him, and she was in  _ hospital _ after what he did. And she’s going back again this week.”

“I know MJ saw him.”

“So?” Flash folded his arms across his chest. 

Peter was quiet.

Flash nodded.

“You should go see him.”

“I know.”

“Okay. Then do it.”

Flash waited for it – the excuse. The explanation. Sure, it would be bullshit – it always was – but it would be Peter.

It never came.

In fact, nothing did. Peter stayed quiet, and Flash found he didn’t have the energy to force him to speak anymore. He sat back down at the kitchen table and, when Peter still said nothing, he finished his dinner. After dinner, he cleaned the table and put away the first aid kit. When he returned to the living room, Peter finally spoke.

“Flash. I’ll go see Harry. Okay?”

_ Yes _ , Flash thought.  _ No _ . Didn’t he know that he should have already gone? That it was too late? That he couldn’t get those visits back?

But he could. He was Peter. Harry would forgive him. MJ would forgive him. Flash would forgive him. That was what Peter did. He made you love him.

Flash nodded. Peter straighted.

“Hey. Can I… I came here for a reason, actually. Not because I needed a nurse. Thanks, though.”

Flash let Peter cringe, ignoring the knots that had suddenly appeared in his stomach. Peter blanched, seeming unsure, and finally set down his bloody cloth. His cut, Flash noticed, seemed much better already. Almost eerily so.

“Can you, uh… sit?”

“Why?” Flash asked, folding his arms across his chest, defenses coming up.

“Or don’t!” Peter said quickly, raising his hands. “That’s… you can stand. It doesn’t matter. Um…” for a moment, it looked like he didn’t know whether to continue seated or not. He stayed on the sofa but looked Flash in the eye. “I came here to say: I’m sorry. To you. No, wait, listen. The thing is, I’m a smart guy. We know this. But I… I do a lot of stuff without thinking. Just because I want to. Because it feels good.” He shook his head. “Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel good. I get, like, tunnel vision. Sort of. And I’m stuck in this weird place, because I cared about Gwen, and it wasn’t enough. And I miss her. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do about that.”

Flash waited. Peter took a deep breath.

“You’re a decent guy, Flash Thompson. And I guess what I wanted to say... what I came here to say is… I found a place.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, a relieved smile spreading across his face. “It’s barely Manhattan but it’s cheap, and it’s mine.”

“Oh,” Flash said again. “That’s… great.”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded enthusiastically. “But,” he said then, “as I was checking out the place – rats are pretty much guaranteed – I realized something.”

“And what was that?” Flash asked dutifully.

“I’m gonna miss having you around.”

Flash’s grip on his own arms tightened. 

“For the record,” he said, “ _ I’ve _ had  _ you _ around.”

Peter huffed. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t know if I do.”

“I want to hang out.”

Flash blinked.

“Hang out?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Like…” Flash had never seen Peter squirm this way, only one of them exposed. “The two of us.”

“You mean... like before?”

“ _ No _ ,” Peter said. “I mean, like... together.”

“Together,” Flash repeated. “Like... friends?”

Peter’s nostrils flared.

“Like, dinner and a movie.”

“You’re kidding.”

Peter’s jaw was clenched tight now, and his hands were gripping his knees with some force.

“You like me, don’t you?” he grit out.

Flash shook his head, feeling dazed. “But do  _ you _ like me?”

“I’ve had my hands on your dick, Thompson, that’s gotta count towards something.”

Blood rushed towards Flash’ face.

“Shut up,” he said immediately, a reflex.

“Make me.”

Flash couldn’t believe his ears. Slowly, his arms unfolded and dropped to his sides.

Peter gave him a little nod.

“You’re serious,” Flash said. He could barely hear his own voice past the blood rushing in his ears.

“As a heart attack,” confirmed Peter.

No. No, this didn’t make sense. The lights were on. The volume on the TV was quiet, but it was still talking. The fridge was buzzing and the pipes in the bathroom down the hall behind him clicked uneasily.

Peter was sitting on the sofa.

Slowly, Flash walked across the room. Peter’s brown eyes followed him, and Flash had to wonder. Was Peter really looking at him like that?

He sat down beside him, carefully, as if the sofa might break under both their weight even though it had fared just fine not half an hour ago. Peter looked at him expectantly. Flash supposed it was his turn to talk.

“You’re serious,” he said again. The corner of Peter’s mouth twitched. Flash kissed him. He pressed his lips to Peter’s, but softly this time. Not like the other night, which had been odd and urgent and messy. Peter didn’t move under him, but he didn’t pull away. Butterflies shook his ribcage, but Flash stayed, because he had to make sure.

“There’s that quarterback magic,” Peter whispered. 

Flash dropped his forehead against Peter’s in defeat.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he sighed.

“Yeah,” Peter said, his breath warm on Flash’s lips, “but you like it. ‘Cause you’ve got a  _ crush _ on me—“

Flash kissed him again, and this time, Peter kissed back. Flash cupped Peter’s face with his hands, heart thudding in his chest. Peter pushed further into the kiss, and Flash pressed his thumb into Peter’s jaw, the tendons of his shoulder. 

Suddenly, the taste of iron touched his tongue. Peter pulled away and covered his mouth with his hand.

“Fuck,” he winced, laughing awkwardly as blood stained his fingers. “Mood killer.”

Flash however found it to be the complete opposite. Something animal inside him wanted to take Peter’s red fingers into his mouth, kiss his mouth until his lips matched his. He blanched inwardly at himself and instead carefully thread his fingers through Peter’s free hand, experimental. Peter squeezed, his eyes bright. Flash’s heart soared.

It felt odd, to be shy still in spite of everything. But in spite of their interlocked fingers and the pink in Peter’s cheeks, Flash felt himself receding… nevermind Peter’s hand on his knee or the goofy smile on his face that made Flash want to kiss him and run all at the same time.

“We don’t–”  _ We don’t have to. _

Peter nodded, and Flash let out a breath. “I know,” he said easily. “That’s fine by me. Dinner first. A movie.”

There he went again. He really was serious.

It was finally starting to sink in. Flash shifted on the sofa, bringing his leg up between them so as to face Peter better. 

“Pete, wait,” he said. Peter’s brow furrowed, but his fingers stayed tangled in Flash’s.

“What is it?”

“You know–” Flash began, struggling to find the right words. “You’re not like me, are you?”

“What do you mean? I’ve told you I like you–”

“But,” Flash interrupted. “Not just… Have you ever…? I’m a guy.”

“Oh, really. I hadn’t noticed,” Peter said. Flash felt himself growing pink again.

“Dinner, a movie… You know it can’t be the same. Right?”

Peter’s frown deepened.

“The same as what?” he asked, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “Hey, fuck that. No, listen. I don’t care about that shit, okay? I’m years past caring about what anybody thinks–”

“I know  _ that _ ,” Flash interrupted. “But, what. You just woke up one day, and, what? I don’t think you get it–”

“I get it, and I don’t care. And I didn’t wake up one day, alright?” He looked at the television and chewed briefly on his lip before saying, “I told you before, I’m a bit thick-skulled when it comes to some stuff. That’s all. Maybe I’m not like you. I mean, you’ve known… you said it had been forever.”

Flash’s face heated up, but he could hardly take it back.

“But for me,” Peter continued, “I don’t know. Maybe there’s always been something there.” He shrugged. “I’ve just never really given it much thought.”

Flash let out a disbelieving laugh. “What, so that’s it? It’s that easy for you?”

Peter stared at him.

“Yeah. It’s that easy.”

And Flash believed him. Everything had always come easy to Peter Parker: girls, grades, looks… Why should this be any different? Why should anything?

“Are you mad?” Peter asked after a moment. Flash realized that his jaw was clenched tight and his shoulders tense.

He refused to answer.

“So why now?” he asked instead.

“Well… this guy I know… gives  _ really _ good head.”

Flash shoved him and turned away, folding his arms across his chest.

“Hey,” Peter said, stifling a laugh and shuffling closer to him, his crossed legs now resting on Flash’s. “Although it pains me to admit this – and high school me would probably have a heart attack to hear what I’m about to say – you’re actually one of my best friends.” He nudged Flash’s hip with his knee. “And hot to boot.”

“Shut up.”

“I care about you.” In spite of it all, that caught Flash’s attention. He turned his head back towards Peter to find the other man’s face surprisingly close and his eyes soft. “And if I’m honest, these past months sharing a bed with you has been utter torture. Just took me a while to realize why.” He knocked on the side of his head with a closed fist. “Thick skull, see?”

“No, I knew that.”

Peter smiled. His lip had stopped bleeding again. Slowly, he raised his hand – nails brown with blood – and placed it gently on the side of Flash’s face. It made Flash’s chest ache.

“You’re real pretty, Flash, you know that?” Flash’s ears burned. “Hey, Eugene,” Peter insisted quietly. “You know that, right?” He brushed a thumb over his cheekbone, soft, and that was when Flash saw it: in the slight crease of his brow, the set of his lips and the twitch in his jaw – Peter looked doubtful. And somehow, that made everything better. Doubt was something Flash could cling to. It was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that rooted this whole fucking evening in reality. Doubt, and the bones of the sofa they sat on.

Flash put his hand over Peter’s, turned his head and pressed his lips to Peter’s bruised knuckles.

“Do you ever shut up?”

Peter’s eyes twinkled.

“How about you try and find out?”

Peter did not shut up.

Flash didn’t really mind.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> is this basically same as my other peterflash but r-rated and with a happier ending? sshhhh  
> thanks for reading!!
> 
> wake me - bleachers


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